


You Don't Understand

by Sara_Ellison



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Pie, Wish Fulfillment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:13:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sara_Ellison/pseuds/Sara_Ellison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He NEEDS pie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Don't Understand

**Author's Note:**

> Another in my series of porny post-episode fics. For once, I'm posting it more than a day before the next episode airs!

Noises from the kitchen pull Dean out of his room, just when he was about to fall asleep. “Sam?” he calls, padding toward the kitchen in his t-shirt and boxers. “What are you doing at this time of night?” He rounds the corner, blinking in the relative brightness, and stops dead at what he sees.

Castiel is standing there, both hands stained red and dripping, one holding a knife. “Hello, Dean,” he says quietly.

“What the hell?!” Dean blurts. “Cas, what--what the _hell?_ ”

“It’s not finished yet,” Cas grumbles, and Dean stares at him, utterly bewildered.

Now that he’s actually looking, the red liquid doesn’t look like blood. The consistency is thinner, and it doesn’t look like it’s drying the way blood dries. Then Cas reaches into a bowl on the counter, pulls out a cherry, and slices it into quarters with the knife in his hand, neatly popping out the stone and getting yet more red juice on his fingers. He drops the fruit into a saucepan, already over half full of fruit. Beside the pot on the counter is a glass pie plate, lined with dough.

Dean feels a little bit like a colossal idiot. “Oh,” he mumbles. “You’re...baking?” There’s flour in Cas’ hair and a bit smeared on his cheek, Dean notices.

“The store didn’t have pie,” Cas says, “and the clerk was extremely unhelpful. Fortunately, I was able to do some research and discover the formula to create a pie.” He glances at the pot on the counter. “I wasn’t sure what type of fruit you would like as filling, so I opted for a combination of blueberries, apples, peaches, and cherries.”

“Holy shit,” Dean says faintly. He’s a tiny bit turned on.

“I hope the crust is acceptable,” Cas continues. “Different sources suggested different procedures. Some required seventeen ingredients and considerably involved methods of combining them. I opted for a simpler one--it would have had four ingredients, but Sam suggested replacing half of the vegetable shortening with butter, the addition of which brings the total to five.”

“Sam?” Dean repeats. “Sam is in on this?”

Cas frowns, looking a little like a hurt puppy. “In on what? This is not a conspiracy, Dean. This is a pie.”

“Sure,” Dean snaps. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing? You’re trying to fool me into forgiving you by making me food.” He’s actually angry now. He doesn’t _like_ having his emotions manipulated, especially by people he trusts and cares for.

“I am not trying to fool you,” Cas argues, quiet but firm. “I am trying to make a pie, because you like pie.” He frowns again. “Don’t you?”

“Yes,” Dean says. “That’s not the point.”

“What _is_ the point?” Cas is looking at him with narrowed eyes. “Why can’t you accept this as a good thing, regardless of whatever else you’re feeling towards me right now?”

“Because I can’t!” Dean shouts. “I can’t just divorce my feelings about pie from my feelings about you, when you’re the one who’s making the pie!” He slams his fist down on the table, making Cas jump, and turns away, fuming. He can’t look at Cas, not when he’s emotionally frayed, or he’ll say something he’ll regret. He might already have. He closes his eyes and counts, breathing deeply. It takes until twenty-three before he feels calm enough to turn around again.

Cas has put the saucepan on the stove and is stirring sugar and cornstarch into the fruit filling. He isn’t looking in Dean’s direction, and Dean feels himself deflate. He pulls out a chair and sits at the kitchen table, quietly, and watches Cas work. While the filling is cooking, he begins to roll out another ball of dough on the countertop, pausing every few passes of the rolling pin to stir the fruit again. Finally, Cas pours the filling into the dish and covers it with the rolled-out dough, cutting a few slits into the top and sealing the edges.

He slides the pie onto the oven rack and closes the door. “It will be a while until it’s baked,” he says, then picks up the wooden spoon and empty saucepan. He scrapes the spoon around the inside of the pot, then offers it to Dean, glistening with bright fruit syrup. “Would you like to taste the filling?”

Hesitantly, Dean reaches out and takes it, trying not to care that his fingers brush Cas’ on the handle. He brings the spoon to his mouth, wraps his lips around it and sucks the thick liquid off. His eyes widen involuntarily as the flavors flood over his tongue, and he swallows hard. He opens his mouth, meaning to speak, but the sound that emerges is embarrassingly similar to a moan. He clears his throat and tries again. “Wow,” he says, hoarse. “That’s really good, Cas.”

Cas sits down in the chair next to Dean, watching him intently, his eyes flickering between Dean’s eyes and his mouth as he licks his lips, trying to catch all of the blended flavors of the fruit. It’s not a combination that Dean would have thought to try, but it _works_ , in a sort of way that only someone with an outsider’s perspective would even come up with. That pie, when it comes out of the oven, is going to be the best thing Dean has ever tasted. He scowls, because it’s _working_ , damn it, Cas’ ploy for forgiveness is bearing fruit before Dean has even had a bite of the pie.

“I’m glad you like it,” Cas says. His voice is low, his eyes still boring into Dean’s in a way that makes Dean feel strange. He doesn’t want to examine the strangeness too closely because it’s not at all an unpleasant sensation, and his policy of _if it ain’t broke_ has served him well, so he exhales and settles into yet another in his series of bizarre, close-range staring contests with the angel.

“Dean,” Cas says, after a few minutes of intense staring, “what _are_ your feelings about--pie? What is the source of your passion for this particular food?”

Dean blinks, caught off-guard. “I don’t know,” he says. “It’s just good. It’s sweet, and satisfying, and I enjoy it.”

Cas cocks his head to the side, studying Dean like he’s a puzzle. “Is that all?” he asks. “Nothing deeper than simple gustatory pleasure? Why pie, and not cake? Does pie not mean more to you than other desserts? Is there no more profound--” He breaks off suddenly and goes silent.

“Are you kidding?” Dean says. “Pie is _way_ better than cake. I mean, I _like_ cake, and I dunno, ice cream and other kinds of sweet things, but pie, man. Pie is the _ultimate_ gustatory pleasure, there’s nothing simple about it. My mom used to make pie all the time when I was little.” He leans forward. “There was this town in Indiana called Burkitsville. They grew apples there, and Scotty’s Café in town had the best pie in the state. Or they said so, anyway--I never got to try it. And do you know why it was so good?” Cas shakes his head. “They were sacrificing people to a Vanir. A Norse demigod, who gave them a good apple harvest in exchange for _human lives_. But he wasn’t taking these people himself, Cas. He wasn’t terrorizing the town. The people were _giving_ the victims to him. They willfully murdered unwitting strangers in exchange for a healthy orchard. Do you think that’s a good trade? Do you think it’s worth it? Do you think really good apples in a really good pie can make up for the evil of killing other human beings?”

“I don’t understand,” Cas says. “Your love of pie is connected to this--this atrocity that these people were committing?”

Dean shakes his head. “No. Yeah, I dunno, I guess it is. They obviously thought it was worth it, that what they gained from the sacrifice made up for the deaths, that _something_ that monster could give them could be good enough to even the score. So if a pie _that_ good can exist...” He shrugs. “If humankind can create something that’s so good, it makes up for all the evil things that they do to each other? I damn well wanna taste that pie.”

Cas nods slowly. “I understand,” he says. “Well, I understand somewhat. But why do you persist in trying mediocre pies from supermarkets and convenience stores? You can’t expect that one of those will be good enough to fulfill your expectations.”

Dean shrugs. “They may not be great, but they’re still pie,” he explains. “It’s helping fill the gap until I find the real thing. And who knows, maybe one of those supermarkets will surprise me and be better than I expect.”

“But they’re still only a pale imitation,” Cas continues for him, his voice low and steady. “What you really need is a hot, fresh, _real_ pie, made just for you with intent and care and love.”

Dean stares at him. It feels suddenly warm in the kitchen; the back of Dean’s neck feels hot, and his ears, and his cheekbones. “Are we still talking about pie?” he murmurs.

The timer on the oven chimes far too loudly, snapping the tension like a guitar string and making Dean jump. Cas stands, turning toward the oven and bending down to peer in at the pie. Dean looks away, but it’s too late; the sight of Castiel’s ass up in the air is seared into his memory. The open oven is emitting a truly heavenly aroma, and Dean finds himself breathing deeply, savoring it as his mouth waters. It’s turning him on beyond belief, and he’s kind of glad he’s seated.

“It’s not done yet,” Cas says. “It needs another fifteen minutes, at least.” As he turns back towards Dean, he notices that Cas still has flour on his cheek.

“You’ve got something on your face,” Dean hears himself say. Cas swipes at the wrong side of his face with the back of his hand. “No,” Dean says. “You missed it. Here--” He’s on his feet without really thinking about it, reaching out to brush his fingers over Cas’ cheekbone.

Cas lean into Dean’s hand, kind of nuzzling into his palm, and it suddenly changes from a quick touch to a caress and Dean freezes, his breath catching. Cas looks up at him, his blue eyes intense and full of challenge, and Dean has to swallow hard before he can speak. “Cas...did you bake me a pie to seduce me?”

“No, Dean,” Cas says. His lips brush the edge of Dean’s thumb as he speaks, and Dean shivers. “I baked you a pie because I know you like pie, and I like you, and I want you to have things that you like.” He pauses. “I also bought you an issue of _Busty Asian Beauties_.”

Dean huffs a laugh, a little disbelieving and a little amazed. “Wow, thanks, Cas,” he says, “but I don’t think I need the porn.” He realizes how cheesy that sounds as he says it, but mentally shrugs it off. “Honestly? Right now, I’d rather have you.”

Cas turns his head and kisses Dean’s palm, his lips dragging softly over the skin, and the sensation goes straight to Dean’s groin. He shifts his hand to the back of Cas’ neck and pulls him in because he just plain _needs_ to kiss him now. Cas’ mouth opens under his, hot and hungry and eager, and then his tongue is pressing into Dean’s mouth, probing, possessive.

He finds himself backed up against the table, its edge pressing into the backs of his thighs, so he sits on it, spreading his knees wide so he can pull Cas right up to him. He moans at the feeling of Cas’ erection pressing against his belly; his own is trapped between their bodies, hard and aching. He rolls his hips, hitching against Cas’ body because this is _happening_ , God, they’re rutting together all quick and dirty and Dean’s hand is on Castiel’s ass, gripping a handful of firm muscle and he’s wanted to do that for longer than he can say.

Cas’ mouth is open against Dean’s neck, now, licking and sucking and scraping with his teeth, and it feels better than it has any right to. Dean gets a hand between them, fumbling at Castiel’s zipper until he gets it open, reaches in and works Cas’ cock out of his underwear. Cas groans sharply, breath hot against Dean’s skin, and thrusts into his hand; he’s iron-hard, throbbing in Dean’s palm. It turns Dean on like nothing has before and he steals a moment to pull his own dick out of his boxers. Cas thrusts against him, impatient, and Dean wraps his hand around both of them.

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas bites out. His hand lands atop Dean’s, forcibly interlacing their fingers so they both stroke them together. Cas is squeezing their cocks hard, just this side of uncomfortable, but it sets Dean on edge, ratcheting higher, every exhale a moan. Cas’ breathing is harsh and quick; he sounds close, he sounds _close_ and it makes Dean leak because that’s Cas, that’s _his_ Cas and he’s about to come for Dean, just for Dean, just for him. He shudders, thrusting through the tunnel of their entwined hands, his thighs tense and tight on either side of Cas’ hips, and Cas groans, “Fuck,” and Dean loses it. He trembles and breaks, pulsing sticky over their fingers, clinging to Cas for dear life and crying his name, and Cas gasps Dean’s name in return and follows him over the edge.

It leaves him drained, thoroughly. His limbs are trembling, and he’s about as strong as a wet paper bag right now, or he would hold Cas where he is and never let him go. He’s trying to remember how to breathe, and Cas is looking at him steadily but somehow almost shy, biting his lip, and Dean has no choice but to kiss him again, firm but gentle this time.

The oven timer nearly gives Dean a heart attack. He slackens his grip on Cas’ hand so that he can go check on the pie, but the angel doesn’t let go. He raises their joined hands to his lips and kisses them, open-mouthed, his tongue swiping over the come clinging to their fingers, and Dean might actually combust. “Jesus, Cas,” he says weakly.

Cas smiles. “I like how you taste,” he says. “I think I would like to give you oral sex.”

Dean groans, his dick giving a valiant twitch. “You know exactly what you’re doing to me,” he says, too sanguine to be accusatory. He disentangles himself and pushes Cas away, but Cas isn’t easily pushed, so he ends up pushing himself down on the table. “Go check the pie before it burns, and give me a chance to recover,” he begs. He tucks himself back inside his boxers as Cas turns away and zips his own trousers.

“Dean, I need the table,” Cas says, ever so patient. Dean looks up to see him holding a gorgeous, golden-crusted beauty of a pie, and half-falls off the table in his scramble to make room for it. Cas sets it down and stands back as though standing on ceremony. Dean is torn between wanting to do the same, and diving right into it. It’s the single most attractive thing Dean has ever seen.

He glances at Cas, mouth half-open to say something along those lines, and hesitates. Cas meets his gaze, his eyes questioning and hopeful, a faint smile playing about his lips, and Dean instantly revises his assessment. The pie is only the second most attractive thing. It’s almost too pretty to eat, but the aroma wafting from it is far more enticing than its visual appearance, so he grabs a couple of plates and a knife. “Would you like to do the honors?” he asks, presenting the handle of the knife to Cas. “It’s your creation, after all.”

Cas glances from Dean to the pie and back. “Together,” he says. “It’s your pie.” He takes the knife, then grabs Dean’s hand and places it over his own, interlacing their fingers as he guides the blade toward the crust, and damn if Dean isn’t getting hard again. It’s got to be some sort of conditioning, he thinks; he’ll never be able to hold hands with Cas without remembering the way he’d stroked them both. Then the blade pierces the crust, and the sweet scent floods the air, making Dean’s mouth water, and he can’t believe he’s thinking about sex when there’s _pie_ in front of him.

Sam can be stealthy when he wants to, but when there’s no particular need to be, he tends to walk about as lightly as a moose. They hear him coming, and it gives Dean to adjust himself and make sure neither he nor Cas look like they’ve just had sex before Sam appears in the kitchen. “That smells fantastic,” he says. “Can I have a slice?”

“Sure,” Dean says cheerfully, and gets another plate for him. Cas puts the first slice of pie on it and Sam reaches for it. “Are you kidding?” Dean says, pulling it away. “This one’s for me. Cas gets the next one because he made it, _then_ you get a slice.” He stabs a fork decisively into his pie.

“Fair enough,” Sam says, shrugging. He waits for Cas to serve himself, then pauses, watching as Dean forks the first bite into his mouth.

It’s hot, almost too hot, but Dean rolls it around his tongue to cool it and doesn’t regret not waiting because _holy shit_ that is a delicious pie. The crust is tender and flaky, with just enough flavor of its own to complement the fruit without overwhelming it. The blended flavors of the fruit have benefited from the additional cooking; there’s a chunk of apple, a piece of a cherry and a couple blueberries in his mouth, soft but not mushy. He’s reluctant even to swallow it, but he does, then runs his tongue carefully over his teeth to make sure he’s gotten every last bit of flavor. “That is the best thing that I’ve ever put in my mouth,” he declares.

“Dude, I don’t want to know about things you put in your mouth,” Sam protests, but he’s laughing.

Cas leans toward him and says lowly, “You haven’t yet had the best thing you’ll put in your mouth.” Dean nearly chokes on his next bite of pie, and he feels his face heat.

“What?” Sam wants to know. “What’d he say?”

“Nothing, Sammy,” Dean manages, struggling to focus on the pie and not on the idea of undoing Cas with his lips and tongue.

“I was referring to my penis,” Cas says clearly, just when Dean was starting to think he’d get out of this one just fine.

“ _Augh_ ,” Sam says, clapping his hands over his ears. “Cas! There are some things you don’t just talk about with other people!”

“I know,” Cas says complacently, “but I found the look on your face very entertaining.” Dean bursts out laughing as Sam sputters.

“Wait,” Sam says, “so does that mean it worked?”

“What worked?” Dean demands, eyes narrowing. “Cas?”

“I told you, Sam,” Cas says patiently, “there was no intent behind the pie except providing Dean with pie.”

“But it worked,” Sam persists. “I mean, you guys made up, right? You’re friends again?”

“No. We’re still friends,” Dean says, “but just so we’re clear, I’m still mad at you.” He glares at Cas and takes another bite of perfect, delicious pie. It’s very difficult to keep glaring.

Cas’ face falls. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. “I was looking forward to--”

“Please don’t finish that sentence,” Sam interrupts. “I don’t want to know.”

Dean glances at him. Sam’s plate of pie is sitting in the approximate spot on the table where Dean’s left ass cheek rested while he and Cas had sex; Dean elects not to tell him this. “Cas,” he says, “you’re new to this whole thing, so you don’t know. Angry sex is one of the best things you’ll ever experience.”

Cas’ eyes widen. “You mean you’re still willing to--” He glances at Sam. “Do...things...with me?”

Dean shovels another bite of pie into his mouth and drops his fork. “Come on,” he says with his mouth full, standing up and grabbing Cas’ hand, pulling him up out of his seat.

“I’ll get the dishes, then,” Sam grouses as Dean practically drags Cas out of the kitchen and towards his bedroom.

Afterwards, Dean is forced to reevaluate his earlier assessment and conclude that, yes, the pie is only the second best thing he’s ever had in his mouth.


End file.
